Needle in a Haystack (10 page)

…and she knows there’s no turning back, she can’t become unpregnant, nor does she want to, and she’s afraid. It seems clear to her that there are two kinds of coward: those who beat a retreat and those who make a break for it. The moment has come for her to plan her escape, because she’s become surrounded. She can almost hear the barking of the dictatorship’s dogs with their slobbering tongues, sniffing out the streets in search of her. They can smell her sweat, her pregnant female scent. She chases such thoughts away, determined not to let them take hold inside her. She would like to go back to being a little girl, feel herself protected, free of these worries, and she dreams of a different country, dreams of the sea and starts to organize her thoughts of exile:

Eva stands up, goes into the kitchen and makes herself a cup of tea. Cup in hand, she takes tiny sips of the still bubbling hot liquid, enjoying tormenting her tongue as she used to do as a little girl, and walks around the house. She goes into the bedroom and opens drawers, making sure everything is put back in its precise place. Underpants, socks, shirts, handkerchiefs, ties. The drawer on the bedside table is lined with oilskin. It’s full of of empty packets of cigarettes, papers, used pens, a jumble of old bills which she flicks through half-heartedly, gas, electricity, phone, empty matchboxes, kipple. When she puts them all back, she notices something under the cloth on the bottom and so lifts it up to investigate. She thinks she’s looking into a mirror, but no, it’s a
photograph. There she is, herself, in Ital Park, hugging Lascano, both of them smiling at the camera. She falls back on the bed; now she’s the one who’s seen a ghost. She goes into the bathroom and looks back and forth between her reflection in the mirror and the photo. Now she understands why this man protects her, helps her. She realizes that the woman must have left him or died, almost certainly the latter because Lascano has the burnt-out look of a widower before his time, and she can appreciate why he doesn’t know what to do with her. Everything becomes clear, and she goes back to his bed to study the photo at greater length. They look happy and in love, while behind them a roller coaster descends at full speed, a blur of fuchsia, green and yellow lights, the people’s faces terrified and out of focus. Lascano has a lovely smile she has never seen before. His skin shines in contrast to the
mate
-coloured complexion he has these days and she understands his pain of happiness lost. A salt tear falls on the photo and mixes with the silver salts that preserve the image. She slumps back on the bed, buries herself in the pillow, which smells of him, and she cries and cries for her pain, until night starts to fall. She sleeps and in her dream Lascano, the child growing inside her, the woman in the snapshot and Eva herself all get confused. There is a park where the grass meets the sea, where everything is pleasant, sincere and warm.

Sounds. Eva leaps up, hides the photo and slips out of the bedroom as Lascano, with his back to her, closes the front door. She pretends to come out of the bathroom, her heart punching her from within and her cheeks all flushed. A smile begins to form on his face, but is gone so fast it might have been an illusion. It is as if he suddenly
remembered a grave and sad obligation. There then occurs that moment when a man’s and a woman’s eyes meet and they both realize that things are starting to get serious. Each of them tries to sidestep the revelation and move at the same time, their bodies colliding: desire has dug its teeth in and won’t let go, even if for now they both retreat into their own shells. She at least has the child warming her belly. He only has a photo, which he finds under his pillow without wondering how it got there, accustomed as he is to Marisa sneaking up on him any time, any place. In the lounge, Eva wants to laugh and she wants to cry, while falling asleep on the sofa.
Tomorrow’s another day
, as her granny, happy to state the obvious, would always say when she came to comfort Eva with a goodnight kiss.

She didn’t hear him leave. When she opens the venetian blinds, a beautiful Thursday pours into the room and makes her feel full of life. The clock tells her she’s been asleep for twelve hours straight. Her body is grateful. She thinks of Lascano, his sadness, his not knowing how to handle her, what to do with this replica of his lover, who has appeared before him, who he looks after as if somehow protecting his dead wife. The guy’s old enough to be her father. But he’s not her father and Eva’s always been attracted to older men. In secondary school, when her friends were busy whispering about the boys in the fifth form, she was fantasizing about the other girls’ fathers. She found smile lines at the corner of a man’s eyes more seductive than the affected posturing of an adolescent, always trying to leave boyhood behind, always trying to appear manlier than he was. Eva was more drawn to the mature man, well-groomed, whose inner child expressed itself freely and willingly rather than betrayed him when least expected.

Wrapped in a flowery headscarf that puts ten years on her, and pulling a shopping trolley, Eva leaves the flat. She goes to a market which every Thursday shuts a nearby street off from the roaring traffic. Free market
imports overflow at the colourful fruit stalls: mangoes, plums, pears, papayas and melons, all readily available in the depths of winter. Greengrocers stand on their little platforms shouting out offers, butchers flatter the women with compliments, distracting them while they fiddle the scales. It’s all a world apart, a half-day reprieve from the mad city, an oasis of mandarin oranges that lets the little servant girls stock up on fruit and veg.
Look what lovely eggs
, an impish country voice calls out as Eva passes by. And the eggs really do look lovely. Big, brown, smooth.
Come on, madam, take some home with you, they’re double yokes.

She spends the afternoon in the kitchen. Working from memory, something her grandma once showed her, Eva puts an eye round of beef in the oven, stuffed with bacon, garlic, parsley and carrots, surrounded by potatoes. Ten minutes in the oven on a high heat until golden, then an hour at medium temperature and it’s ready to eat. Something simple and tasty as a treat for her protector. Why? Because he looks after her, and because he’ll be her safe conduct out of the nightmare the country has become, about which she wishes to think no more, and also just because. She wants to head far away and imagines herself on a beach with her daughter enjoying the sunset, loving her little girl and somehow being able to explain to her that she’ll not have to go through what her mother went through.
And what if it’s a boy?
Things become complicated because Eva can’t picture herself with a boy.
How do you talk to a little man? About what?
And so for the purpose of her dreams she decides it’ll be a girl,
and if it turns out to be a boy then so be it
.

The house fills up with the smell of cooking. Eva feels like it’s a Sunday and she realizes she’s longing for
Lascano to arrive home, that actually he’s usually home by now. The feeling that something has happened prods her in the chest, but at that very moment he opens the door.

With the precision of a surgeon, Perro carves through the roast beef, which steams on the plate, lying on its bed of vegetables. He cuts himself the perfect slice that includes part of the vegetables, red meat from the middle and a fine crispy crust, and pops it in his mouth.
The girl certainly chose a good cut. Oh, glorious Argentinean beef! The perfect consistency; not as tender and yielding as sirloin so you have to work it a little, crush it with your molars so that it releases its juices onto your tongue, with the subtle fragrance of garlic and parsley.
The hearty fare slips down his throat and comforts his soul. At meal times he reverts to being a little boy home from school. Lascano pours some wine. Eva patiently awaits his verdict.

Lascano’s gaze wanders from the meat to the spuds to the glass to Eva’s eyes, to her mouth and he smiles sincerely.

His insinuation slips out without warning.

Speaking of meat, the best part’s still to come. Oh yes, what’s that then? Dessert. Did you make dessert too? The idea is we
make it together. With what ingredients? Mystery, silence, the wind and the rain. And does this dessert have a name? It’s French, it’s called
petite mort
. I didn’t know you spoke French. There are lots of things you don’t know about me. That’s true. Well, aren’t you curious? A little… When are you going to realize I’m dying for you to make a move on me? Girl, I prefer you being alive. Are you going to play the fool for much longer? For as long as I can. And why, might I ask? Forgive me, but I’m not suited to all these things any more. All what things? These romantic things, dinner, looks, insinuations. Everyone’s suited to these things. Those who aren’t, are dead already, just nobody told them. You’re probably right. You’re scared. I know how the story ends. Oh really. So tell me, if you already know, how does it end? With one or both of us suffering. And so? Maybe you like suffering, I don’t. Well, if that’s your attitude, why don’t you just kill yourself? What’s that got to do with anything? You’re going to die one day, you know. We’re all going to die one day. Not loving for fear of suffering is like not living for fear of dying. The young lady is a philosopher? Sir is a coward? Don’t be like that. And how else do you expect me to be? Do you think I don’t notice the way you look at me? You silly old fool, you’ve got desire written all over your face. You said the word: old. I’m too old for you. It’s true I like you, you’re really very lovely, but I’m not fit for that sort of thing any more. But this is ridiculous. I’ve killed myself preparing you a nice surprise, done nothing but make insinuations and advances and you won’t react to a single one of them. What’s the matter, do I disgust you? Of course not, how could you possibly disgust me? It’s just that love is a very dangerous thing. But stop and look at yourself for a second. A guy who spends all day dealing with criminals and killers is scared of a few caresses. Well this really is a surprise. Armed confrontations, one-on-one shoot-outs, they leave me as cold as a fish, but I do take aversion to
mass killings, to catastrophes. And what, love is a catastrophe? Forgive me, but yes, it’s a catastrophe. Don’t you realize that it’s the only thing you’ve got? Don’t give me that stupid look. We’re alive, right now, alone, you like me, I like you. You’ve got the hots for me, I’ve got the hots for you. That’s all that exists. Tomorrow we could both be dead. What are you waiting for, a hearse? I’m not waiting for anything. Well, go cry on your own then, die on your own. You’re really pissed off with me? Yes, very. Is this a fight? No, it’s a comic strip. This is just the first of many. The second. Well, I must admit, I’d spend my whole life fighting with you. You see? We’ve already gone mad. And who wants to be sane at a time like this?

Silence. Lascano, tucked into one corner of the sofa, pretends to be fascinated by the end of his shoes. In the other corner, straddled over the arm, Eva stares at him. Every one of her muscles is tense. She takes a breath and relaxes, then lets herself fall softly into the chair, kicking him as she does so. She’s not going to let him get away that easily. He raises his head, his misty eyes fill her with a mixture of pity and anger. What she needs right now is a man. She moves closer, he says:
stop this nonsense
. She,
OK
, and she puts her arms around his neck and closes in on his face and they press their lips together and while her smells rush to his head - horny bitch, whore, mother, sister, daughter - her breasts nestle into his torso and he opens his mouth so that she can stick her tongue inside, his body softens after so many longed-for caresses, so many nights alone, and he feels touched by hands that are not his own, hands full of surprises -
where are they going now?
- with new rhythms, with snatched breaths and his sex is triumphantly reborn and wants to fly and it grows painful wings, it grabs hold of her and she responds reciting…